


Scent Marking

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beards, Biting, Dom/sub Undertones, Frottage, I'm Sorry Tolkien, M/M, Neck Kissing, Sorry Not Sorry, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 23:12:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4038193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finrod and Beor try something new in bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scent Marking

**Author's Note:**

> For a kink meme challenge on FFA with the prompt of 'watersports'.

They're lying between the sheets of Finrod's large bed, deep underground in the chilly caves of Nargothrond, and Beor wakes to find he has curled up against the warmth of the slender body next to him. He nuzzles at Finrod's throat, making sure to scrape the rasp of his beard over the sensitive skin there. Finrod groans quietly, and puts his arms around Beor, holding him in place. 

"Don't move," he says. "Just keep doing that." He tilts his head back, and Beor presses against him, laying kisses and small bites against his neck. He can hear the low hum of Finrod's voice, softly purring in pleasure, and it's so delightful that he almost forgets why he woke up. 

His bladder reminds him, with an urgent throbbing, and regretfully, he starts to pull away. 

Finrod pulls him back, eyes wide. "Please," he says, breathing it in the way that Beor can never resist, "don't stop." 

Beor flushes. "My lord," he says, "I have to..." He lets the words trail off, and Finrod's eyes get wider, if that were even possible, in understanding. There is a brief pause, as Finrod breathes in and out, slowly. 

"No," he says finally. "Stay here. If your need is too great, then let it overcome you, right here, against me."

Beor cannot hide his flaming face from Finrod, but would if he could. "My lord!" he gasps, in shock. "But I cannot do such a thing to you." But he pictures it in his mind, Finrod warm and wet with his fluids, far more than usual, dripping with him, stinking of him, and cannot deny that the picture is appealing. 

Finrod lifts a pale elegant hand, and trails it down Beor's face, through his beard, and around to the back of his neck. "You are mine, are you not?" he says, almost in a whisper. "My Beor, mine. You have given yourself to me, have you not?"

Beor, helpless, can only nod. "Then give me this of yours too. We have loved each other long enough now that you should know you need hide nothing from me." Their eyes meet, and Finrod kisses him, gently, just once. Beor relaxes, and resumes kissing at Finrod's throat, pressing himself fully against Finrod's whole body. 

Finrod wears a long white robe in bed, but Beor always sleeps naked when he sleeps with the king, and tonight is no exception. He can feel the long lean curve of Finrod's body arching up to meet him. Finrod is not hard but is not far from it, and although Beor feels desire, the condition of his bladder along with his age ensures that he will not get an erection merely from pressing himself against the body of his lover. 

It takes some time, and Beor has to consciously let himself relax, his head against Finrod's shoulder as Finrod rubs comforting circles on his back, before he can let go. When he does it is surprisingly, shockingly pleasurable, to feel the liquid coming from him, soaking warm into Finrod's robe, over Finrod's half-hard cock. Finrod gasps, and then his breathing gets heavier as the warm wetness continues. 

It feels like it will never stop, and part of him never wants it to. The smell of it - strong and vivid - is all around him, and it's like he is bathing Finrod in the essence of himself. Finrod's eyes have fluttered shut, and he is moaning continuously. 

Finrod's hand drifts down between them, adjusting himself as Beor finishes, and suddenly the warm wetness begins again, but this time it comes from Finrod, cascading over Beor's sensitised cock in a golden gush. Beor gets hard so fast it's like he's in his twenties again, and finds himself instinctively thrusting against Finrod, who cries out a wordless invocation of delight as he finishes. 

The mess they've made is slippery and warm between them, and Beor finds himself pushing Finrod down into the bed, rolling on top of him and just rutting against him. Finrod is gasping and thrusting back, hard and aching, making all kinds of delicious noises, and Beor brings his mouth to Finrod's throat, and bites down, hard. 

Finrod's cry as he comes is near a scream, and Beor follows with a harsh gasp, too far gone to remember his own name. He's coming like he hasn't _ever_ in his life, panting and gasping, and finally going limp against Finrod. 

They lie there, breathless in the near dark, until Finrod laughs lightly. 

"What, my lord, is so funny?" Beor asks, his voice still rough. 

"I was thinking of the behaviour of some animals," Finrod says, musing, his voice no different from how it was when they had talked of philosophy earlier that day. "Of scent-marking. Have you marked me as thine, my Beor?" His voice slips into something more intimate at the familiar 'thine', and Beor shivers with pleasure to hear it. 

"I am thy vassal, my lord," he says, and watches Finrod's eyelids flutter and his breath catch at the returned use of the familiar pronoun. 

Finrod smiles and leans up to kiss him, saying, finally, decisively, one word, "Mine."


End file.
